After the Golden Age (Golden Age 1)

Slowly, Celia returned to her seat. She sat on her hands, but they wouldn’t stop shaking. Her face was shaking. Every nerve in her body was shaking.

Suzanne ran her hands through her hair. “And here I was thinking this was going well.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” She sounded small, like a little girl. But her voice was shaking, too, and she had to either talk small or scream.

“Celia, why can’t you just—” Suzanne sighed, once again leaving Celia unclear as to what she hadn’t done, or ought to do, or couldn’t do. She went over to Celia, put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault. I ought to go after him. Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.”

He wasn’t getting into trouble. They’d have heard it, if he was.

“I’ll get you a new table,” her mother said. “We could go shopping for one together.”

“I was going to replace it soon anyway. I think.” Celia shook her head. Feeling exhausted and perfunctory, she said, “Thanks for coming over.”

“He’ll calm down eventually. Then we just have to wait for the next time it happens.” She shrugged, smiling wryly. “You’re still coming over next week, yes?”

“Sure.”

Suzanne left, and Celia threw away the rest of the pizza.

* * *

Just when she’d had enough of parents, Mayor Paulson invited her and Mark to dinner. She almost broke it off with Mark right there.

Was there such a thing as too normal?

Mark drove. “I think Dad feels like he needs to make up for the symphony disaster.”

“That wasn’t his fault.”

“No, but in some ways he thinks he’s responsible for everything that happens in the city. Like he ought to be able to fix every little problem.”

That sounded hearteningly familiar. She wondered, Had the mayor ever met her father in person? They might actually get along.

She started blathering. “I have to warn you, I’m really not ready for you to meet my parents. Not like this, the nice-dinner-at-home thing. I mean, yeah, you already met my mom, but that wasn’t really my mom, you know? That was Spark, and—” She realized how bad this must sound. “It’s not you, it’s just they can be difficult, and I still don’t get along with them too well.” She could see it now: Dad loses his temper and smashes the table to pieces, Mark’s police instincts take over and he draws the gun he keeps in a shoulder holster, Dad sees the gun and throws Mark out the window.…

“It’s okay. I’ll meet them when the time’s right. Hopefully someday when they’re not, you know … being the Olympiad.”

They were always the Olympiad. Sometimes Celia was sure the mundane sides of them were the disguise. That she was part of the disguise.

They pulled up in front of the mayor’s mansion, which stood at the west end of a fifty-acre city park. A valet took charge of the car. Mark was in college when his father was first elected mayor. He’d never lived here.

The Paulsons must have been waiting for them, because the front door opened, held by a butler, as soon as they reached the top of the landing. They then launched into the sort of domestic scene Celia had only ever seen on TV commercials during the holidays. The mayor—Mark’s father, in this context, Celia reminded herself—greeted them expansively, arms open as if to close them in a bear hug. He shook Celia’s hand in both of his own, then clapped his son on the shoulder, grinning madly all the while. They might have been already married and returning home from their honeymoon, the way he carried on. How desperate was he to see his son married off? What have I gotten myself into?

“Come in, come in! Good to see you again, Celia, you’re looking very well. Haven’t scared her off yet, Mark?” His enthusiastic demeanor always played well on television. In person, it was nearly overwhelming.

Behind Anthony Paulson, waiting quietly in the foyer for her turn, stood Andrea Paulson, hands folded in front of her, smiling graciously. She wore an expensive dress suit in a feminine, nonthreatening rose color. Evidently, she was much more comfortable on her home turf. Downright tranquilized compared to their last meeting. She must have been having a bad night at the symphony.

Andrea caught Celia watching her and strode forward hand extended. “Celia, I’m so happy to see you again.”

Celia shook the woman’s hand. Her smile was beginning to feel rather stricken. Andrea turned to her son next and stood on tiptoe so he could kiss her cheek.

“Shall we have a seat in the parlor? Dinner will be in just a few minutes.”

The four of them retired to an honest-to-God parlor. It had plush Persian carpets on hardwood floors, antique furniture in rich woods and velvet upholstery. Each painting on the wall had its own display lamp. The whole mansion was the real deal, a Victorian edifice built by an early industrialist and donated to the city. The ground floor, with its wide foyer, opulent sitting rooms, and formal dining room, were often used for city receptions and ceremonies. The West Plaza penthouse looked almost homey in comparison.

Mayor Paulson settled at the edge of a regal wing-backed chair and said, “Celia, Mark tells me you’re working with the DA’s office on the Sito prosecution?” He waited expectantly for an answer. She’d hoped she could sit back on the chintz sofa and watch the Paulson family dynamic, smiling and nodding politely now and then.

“Yes, I am.”